Les inséparables
by Niahara Erskine
Summary: Series of vignettes and one-shots depicting moments from the lives of the musketeers. Most will be based either on the 2011 or 1993 movies or the books.
1. Influenza

**A/N This author's note will be pretty long, so please bear with me. First, this story, as "Have I threatened you before?", has been written for the challenge on the 3M discussion forum. The idea was to randomly pick a word from the dictionary and write a story centering around. The first word I picked was conflict, the second hammerhead and the third influenza. Seeing as all things I wrote regarding "conflict" appeared shallow in my point of view, I decided to turn my attention to the third word.**

**Now, regarding this story: although they were not massive pandemics, in the first half of the 17th century France was hit by both plague and influenza epidemics, followed by a massive outbreak of plague in 1668. I was unable to find out what kind of influenza broke out at that time and I feel that it does not truly matter. Seeing as I was not accustomed to the treatment of this disease in the 17th century I asked my mother who studied History of Medicine in College and she gave me the treatments mentioned in this story. My father was more cynical and said death was the only remedy. As far as the last treatment goes, it is something that has been used on my grandfather's brother, in his childhood, by his mother when he was suffering from a harsh case of flu. I have no idea whether that particular treatment was used in France in the 17th century, but seeing as it was a common practice in the 19th and 20th century, I feel that it may had been used then as well.**

**Disclaimer: All recognizable things belong to Dumas and Maquet.**

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><p>The epidemic had broken when no one expected it to… the country had just started recovering from the first bout of plague when this new disaster struck. Doctors called it influenza… they said there was no real cure and that everything depended on the patient. The first sings were the chills that ranked the bodies of those infected. Even the warmest room was not warm enough and there was no such thing as a warm enough room in Paris. The fever came next, coupled with coughs, headaches and body pains. Everything hurt… the joints, the throat, the eyes… in the end abdominal pains settled in. There was no escaping it… if the first symptoms settled in the only thing that you could do was pray to the Lord to survive it.<p>

They never expected one of them to fall victim, especially during one of the few times when they were separated. Planchet had left to the countryside in order to help his family take care of their ill mother, while Athos and D'Artagnan had been sent by the King on a secret mission in Spain. Only the two of them had remained and none believed the influenza would strike in their midst.

It started with the chills, but seeing as the whole damned room was drafty both of them were cold. Therefore they paid no heed to the chills and blamed them on the cold autumn weather. They pitied their two friends, riding in this weather, then lit a fire and drank a glass of brandy to warm themselves up. However, when the chills persisted despite the drink and the fire he started worrying. His worry turned to panic when he saw his friend pale and rush to a bucket to empty the contents of his stomach. They had blamed it on the bad vintage of brandy, but he could not stop the claw of fear that gripped his heart when he saw his chilled form huddle under the blankets and still shiver.

He hoped it was only a stomach virus and went to sleep as well, ignoring the trepidation in his soul. In the middle of the night an anguished moan woke him up; opening blurry eyes he squinted, trying to see something in the darkness and understood the moan had come from his friend. Rushing to his side, ignoring the darkness of the room, he placed a hand on his sweaty forehead and felt the fever burning.

"Oh, no, you're not doing this to me, Aramis. I have no idea how to take care of a sick person."

The words were muttered in a soft whisper, yet the other musketeer heard them. Opening his eyes, he groaned in pain, trying to ignore the pounding headache he had. His lips were cracked and his throat felt perched.

"Water," he murmured in a pained whisper.

Porthos went to the jug of water and brought a small cup of water. He placed the object near Aramis' lips and helped him drink as the man seemed too weary to manage this small task by himself. Minutes later the musketeer had fallen asleep under the concerned gaze of his friend.

The fever continued raging up until the morning when Porthos was able to slip away for a few minutes and return with a physician. The man had managed to find Aramis awake and barely coherent. He poked and prodded him, asked question and turned his grim eyes to Porthos.

Influenza… the musketeer had never thought he would come to hate a word as much as this one. No cure… other words he loathed and felt like shoving down the physician's throat. What good was it to be a doctor if you were unable to treat your patients, he wanted to rage, but refrained from doing so in order not to burden Aramis.

The physician left a mix of herbs that was supposed to rein the fever and prescribed leeches. Had Porthos not seen what had happen to those who used leeches, he may have brought them for his friend. He was no doctor, but all those who had been leeched had died… he was not going to risk the same thing happening to Aramis.

He managed to keep Aramis comfortable enough during the first three days. The symptoms appeared to be milder and the fever did not spike anymore. However, it didn't break either. His friend was able to stomach only warm liquids so he made sure to ask his lady to help him out in this situation. When everything seemed to be on the mend, Aramis took a turn for the worst. The pains in his body and legs which had left him after the first two days returned with a vengeance and the fever spiked dangerously high. The physician returned and stated that everything was in the hands of the Lord.

That night found Porthos wetting cloths to place on his friend's forehead… Aramis was shivering despite being huddled under three blankets and the fever refused to go down even with the elixir prescribed by the doctor. His face was gaunt, a clear sign of the fever taking a toll on his body. His eyes were glassy with delirium and dark shadows stretched beneath them. Porthos did not fare better either… he had been barely able to sleep the past days between looking after his sick friend and running across Paris to bring medicine and broth. The giant seemed to wither as fast as his religious companion…

"Don't you dare die on me, you hear me?" the giant growled ferociously towards his feverish friend. "Athos and D'Artagnan are going to return any day now and they're going to skin me alive if I let you die on my watch. We're musketeers! We're supposed to die valiantly, in battle, not crippled by a God forsaken illness."

The ex-priest made no sign of understanding what was being said to him… his eyes were vacant, glazed with fever and staring into nothingness. His teeth were chattering so loud that Porthos felt the entire Paris was able to hear them. And the shivers refused to stop…

Suddenly Porthos dropped the cloth in shock… a memory, mostly forgotten from his childhood was fighting to surface to the front of his mind. A woman, melodious voice, smelling of citrus, cooing incomprehensive words to a small child… strong, yet tender hands grasping the child in an embrace before lowering him in water cold as ice… ice that dulled the terrible burnings in his body and made him able to sleep again…

He had been a small lad at that time and had caught whatever disease had been flowing around at that time. The fever had raged and raged until he mostly wasted away despite the many concoctions shoved down his throat by doctors. His mother had been the one to dunk him in cold water… he knew not who gave her the idea, but seeing as he was alive it clearly worked.

"Well, if it worked on a wee lad then it has to work on Aramis as well," Porthos grumbled to himself as he started preparing the buckets of cold water. "You're lucky you're light enough so I can carry you.

As he prepared the tub and dumped their water resources in it, Porthos could not help thinking about the past. As far as he could remember, there had always been the three of them. One day a whirlwind called D'Artagnan barged in their lives and they became four. He'd be damned if he let the count drop back to three. After filling the tub half with water, he undressed Aramis and carried him to bath. The musketeer's face was flushed red with fever and Porthos prayed that his mother's old method worked… otherwise he did not know what he would do.

He unceremoniously lowered his friends in the water, ignoring the stifled cries that erupted. He took another bucket of water and tossed it over Aramis, then a second one. Porthos could not remember how long his mother had left him in the tub, therefore when he saw a blue hue settled on his friends' lips he carried him away from the tub and huddled him in a large towel. Porthos observed with a hint of surprise that he did not seem as feverish as he was before, but he did not know whether the effect would last long. He settled his friend back in the bed, burying him under the three blankets and returned to his vigil.

Sunlight streaked through the cracked shutters of the window… a persistent ray of light started dancing on his eyelids and Porthos found himself waving his hand around to chase it away. Seeing as the ray did not leave, he blinked blurrily and wondered when he had fallen asleep. His back hurt like blazes and he noticed the world of dreams had claimed him while he was resting in a chair.

Sleeping in a chair… why would he… Wait! Snapping to attention he darted a desperate glance at Aramis wanting to see how his friend fared. His froze upon seeing the former priest so still in his bed… cautiously, he stretched his hand forward and smiled upon seeing the soft rise of his friend's chest. His large palm settled on Aramis's forehead and he sighed happily… the fever had broken.


	2. Conflict

**A/N And finally this is the chapter entitled Conflict. It took me two other stories to finally get here, but this is actually the one-shot that was supposed to be part of the challenge posted on the 3M community forum.**

**Disclaimer: All recognizable things belong to Dumas and Maquet. English is regretfully, not my native language.**

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><p>For as long as he could remember the conflict between the King's musketeers and the Cardinal's guards had brewed at the surface, a whirlwind of pain and terror waiting to unfold. The only feelings shared by these equally valiant groups of men were those of anger and loathing. Not even a moment passed without the utter of a harsh word or the clank of two swords.<p>

Perhaps it was the fact that the Cardinal's guards had not been given their own sense of individuality. After all everyone knew their order had been made out of a sense of spite; the Cardinal did not wish to feel inferior to the King and therefore created his own guard. However, despite all this, the loyalty these men had for their patron and their bravery could not be taken in jest. They were as skilled and courageous as the musketeers, yet they worked for the Church instead of the State. They were quick with their words and quicker with their swords, not wanting to fail protecting the name of the one who established their order.

Perhaps it was the seething hatred the musketeers had for the Cardinal… no matter how genuine his actions seemed to be there was always a hidden meaning to them. As far as they knew, the Cardinal had never done an action that did not favor him in one way or the other. He was known as a skilled politician who had no qualms into using those who followed him as his very own chess pieces. Pieces that sooner or later were always sacrificed for the greater good…

In the end perhaps it was an unspoken rule that the Cardinal's Guards and the King's musketeers should hate each other… he had no idea which of these reasons was to blame. It was well known that each duel started with a wrong word on one part or the other. In this case the King's edicts were null and void. A harsh word or a glare was enough to give birth to a full blown fight that ended with blood smearing the streets of Paris. Sometimes not even those were needed… sometimes they waited in the dark, planning an ambush as retribution for a wrong committed against a comrade.

No matter what it was they all gave as good as they got… especially him and his friends. However, as he returned home, with a bruise the size of a cow on his face and a deep gash on his forearm he wondered whether there will ever be a break from this continuous conflict. God knew he would not be adverse to a day spent in peace and quiet… a day during which he was not forced to gaze over his shoulder every time he went to visit Constance or headed to the pub.

As he walked into the room, he tried to ignore the worried glances his friends shot him and the frown marring Athos' face. He knew he would have to explain sooner or later, but for the moment he simply wished to drop in a chair in an effort to nurse his wounds… there will be time for explanations and retribution at a later date.

After all, despite his musing, the conflict will remain in place as long as the musketeers and the Cardinal's guards existed.


	3. Shot in the Dark

**A/N This chapter was inspired by Within Temptation's song, Shot in the Dark. It deals with death, war and depression so consider yourselves warned. The disclaimer can be found in the first chapter.**

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><p>It's dark on the field and it started raining… the rain is mingling with my blood, soiling the already soiled earth. The wound is deep, too deep and I feel my life slipping through my fingers. All I remember is the sound of a shot and pain, then falling. I can barely feel anything except the scorching pain that is raging through my body.<p>

I look around me… corpses litter the field… in a few moments I will join them. English, French and Huguenots, it does not matter we are all the same in death. Next to me a boy has fallen, a mere child no older than fifteen summers. With his golden hair and blonde eyes he could resemble a cherub were it not for the blood spattered on his uniform and the gaping hole in his chest. Near him one of my comrades took his last breath after a sword skewered his throat.

English or French, how does it truly matter? We all live for our country, die for our King… we have no true choice of our own. I never wanted to feel death's grasp at only twenty eight years, yet here she is, the Dark Mistress, looming over me with her crooked smile. I will die here, every inch of me shall perish and no one will remember who I was. All they will know is that a soldier gave his last breath in the siege of La Rochelle.

I feel cold… everything is so cold… in these last moments my thoughts stray to the child that lays dead near me… does he have a family? A mother? A father? Will anyone mourn him? I know for a fact that no one will mourn me… they will be glad to be rid of me at last, the black sheep of the family who was unable to become a musketeer and remained a mere soldier. No matter how many times I fought and won on the front their disapproval was so blatant… you will be glad to know I am no longer among you, mother, father…

I will miss you sister… you who like an angel always watched over me and kept me safe. You, who loved me despite my many failures… you who always supported me. I say goodbye to you and you only. I'll watch over you, now that I will finally be reunited with our older brother. We will both watch over you.

Forgive me… this is the end…

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><p>The rain finally stopped, bringing a break to the never ending fight. Generals rally their troops and bring them on the field in order to gather the dead and the wounded and bring them where they can be tended to. Many have fallen on both sides and many will still fall…<p>

Near the corpse of a fallen soldier, a man stands making the sign of the cross. His lips barely move yet one can understand he is uttering the last Rites. Next to him, a large man, resembling a giant more than a musketeer is closing the eyes of a fallen, gold haired, boy.

"Do you wonder sometimes who they were? All these unnamed faces lost on the battlefield…" the large man asks and his friend, finally finishing the prayer, answers in a pained voice.

"Sometimes I do, more often than not… " the musketeer says and frowns seeing his companion's glum face. "Why so grim, dear Porthos? It is unbecoming of you…"

" 'tis nothing, a mere folly on my part. My father had a brother who died on the battlefield. Father was forced to live with the pain that he never knew where his brother was buried. I sometimes find myself wondering about these men's families."

"It is not a folly… it is a truth that may happen to all of us. At least we have each other… these men died alone."

The giant nodds and they both gaze at the field full of corpses… valiant men that found their death much too early, fighting in a war that was not truly theirs. Such was the way of life…


	4. Planchet's Christmas Preparations

**A/N So I wanted to write a story in which the musketeers start missing poor Planchet. I also wanted to write a story that involved Christmas and baked apples with cinnamon, a desert that I adore. This is what became of my idea. For those who do not know Lise is my OC from the story No honor among thieves, though you do not have to read that story to understand this one. She makes only a very brief appearance. Everyone knows the disclaimer!  
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><p>Planchet knew he was not smart… he knew he was neither brave nor steadfast. However, he prided himself with the fact that he was loyal. He was loyal to the three men who gave him a place to work, a roof under his head and a purpose in life. Recently, he also became loyal to the young man the three had taken under their wing.<p>

Ever since he started working for the musketeers, Planchet had always prepared something special for Christmas. It was his way of saying thank you to these men he admired. During the years that he had worked for them, Planchet had learned many things about them; he learned how Porthos loved a big roaring fire in the fireplace on Christmas Eve in order to sit there with a cup of brandy and remember the old days. He learned how Aramis enjoyed eating something sweet on Christmas Day because it reminded him of someone, Planchet did not know who. He also knew that Athos had a special Christmas charm he had from his youth, a charm that Planchet made sure to hang every time on Christmas Eve and return it to its place the day after Christmas. The valet had learned about the charm by accident one year and since then he made sure to brighten Athos' day in the only way he could.

However, this year, poor Planchet did not know what to do. He had received a letter from his sister telling him their mother was terribly ill and would probably not see another Christmas. In the tear stained letter his sister was begging him to come home as soon as possible to see their mother for what could be the last time. He had already announced the musketeers and they had given their approval, albeit in a gruff way. Still, Planchet did not know how to solve the matter of Christmas Eve and his preparations.

He could not impose on young master D'Artagnan as he too was included in the valet's plans. The first year the young man had been homesick during the holidays and Planchet had asked in a roundabout way how the boy celebrated Christmas at home. D'Artagnan revealed that his mother usually baked something sweet for Christmas and the three of them received carolers in their home. As a result, Planchet made sure to give a few sous to several children in order to carol outside the musketeers' home.

His only hope remained Lise, the cutpurse that entered their lives on the same day as D'Artagnan. The girl had long since moved from their home and lived in a different part of town with some of her guild members. Lise had never revealed much about her time as a thief, nor had she given any reasons when she left one day. She simply said goodbye, but made sure to return and visit as much as she could. The poor masters were at their wit's end with her sudden disappearances, but there was nothing they could do. From time to time D'Artagnan would smile knowingly and whisper something to Athos whose eyebrows would rise in surprise. In turn, he would say something in a hushed tone to Aramis who would leave the house, followed by Porthos' booming laughter. Planchet was never able to realize what exactly went on between the five of them and he did not pursue the matter. However now he needed her help…

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><p>A day before Christmas Eve Planchet gathered his things and said goodbye to the four men he worked for. Heading to the stables, he mounted his horse, a plain, brown gelding named Leaf and headed home.<p>

Back in the house, the three musketeers and their young protégé gazed a few moments out the window for their servant. They had gotten used to Planchet's Christmas surprises and his baked goods that were different every year.

"Well, I'll be," Pothos grunted, "I never thought I'd see the day when I openly declared I'll miss Planchet. Nobody can quite prepare the Christmas fire like him."

"And nobody can make those cinnamon rolls that taste like mother's." D'Artagnan sighed as he moved away from the window.

"Planchet's mother is very ill. He needs to be with her during these days not remain here and bake food for us," Aramis said with a somewhat wistful expression in his eyes.

It was clear that whatever each of them said for the first time they would miss the valet. Things dragged on as they always did before Christmas. Their patrols were eventless as the Cardinal's guards seemed to be following an unspoken rule that stated that duels were forbidden near Christmas, while the thugs were put off by the freezing cold that ruled over Paris.

Porthos was the first one to return home from his patrol on Christmas Eve. The giant shook the snow off his fur coat and shivered as a strong gust of wind started blowing behind him. He walked inside the home with a gloomy expression on his face, understanding that no one had been at home to start a blazing fire to warm his chilled bones. The last bottle of brandy had been drunk a day before and nobody had had the time to buy another one. All in all, Porthos was expecting a gloomy Christmas Eve, the first in many years.

However, as he walked inside the room, he noticed the room was considerably warm. Thinking that perhaps one of his friends had returned, he looked around the room but found nobody. However, the fire was raging in the fireplace, his armchair was settled close to the fire as usual and a cup of brandy was waiting on the table for him.

"What in the world?" Porthos asked amazed… had Planchet returned? "Planchet!" he bellowed, but no answer came. Clearly, the valet was still on his way home… so who had prepared the fire just as the musketeer liked it?

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><p>An hour later, both Athos and D'Artagnan returned from their patrols. The young Gascon smiled when he felt the warmth of their home and jumped from one foot to the other trying to chase the cold away.<p>

"Looks like Porthos made the fire," D'Artagnan was happy to point out.

"It appears so," Athos answered with no inflections in his voice whatsoever. His eyes, however, had noticed something different about the room they had walked in. The fire, Porthos sleeping in the armchair and the cup of brandy next to him were normal things. However, the small, crystal angel hung above the fireplace was not. The small charm was dangling in its usual place and Athos found himself wondering how it came to do so. He was certain he had last seen the small charm in its usual drawer.

His thoughts quickly ran away when Aramis came home and the three of them tried to wake Porthos up.

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><p>Aramis was the first to wake up on Christmas Day. The musketeer stretched like a cat and quickly got dressed in his day clothes, preparing to head downstairs. He did not know why he was in a hurry; Planchet's morning treats were not going to wait for him on the table. However, it was his habit and he could not break it during this particular Christmas. Porthos' snores rang from the nearby room and Aramis smiled, understanding his friend would not be waking anytime soon.<p>

A soft smell carried itself over to the musketeer and Aramis wondered whether one of the women from the nearby houses had baked something. It smelled of apples, cinnamon and cream… as he made his way downstairs the musketeer smiled in surprise. Four plates were arranged neatly on the table with four teaspoons near them. Baked apples sprinkled with cinnamon and cream waited for the three musketeers. In that moment Aramis concluded that he had to wake everyone up early.

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><p>D'Artagnan had looked blearily at his surroundings when Aramis woke him up. He did not understand why he had to wake on early on Christmas Day. It boggled his mind especially since he knew they all liked to sleep late on Christmas, apart from Aramis who was up with the birds. As he made his way downstairs, rubbing his eyes and yawning, the boy was able to hear Porthos' indignant shrieks and Athos' gruff comments. Neither liked the fact that they had been forced to wake up early.<p>

However, D'Artagnan soon understood why when he saw the delicious desert arranged on the table. He wondered who had prepared it for he knew for certain that the former priest was unable to cook. When everyone came downstairs and tasted the desert they stared at each other is surprise… it tasted like the deserts Planchet made.

Just as they had finished eating the baked apples with cinnamon, carols rang outside the house. D'Artagnan ran to the window and saw a group of children singing Christmas songs. He was surprised to see that Lise was among them… the young Gascon now understood Plachet had received help, but promised not to disclose the valet's secret. Downstairs, in the small courtyard, Lise winked at him and ran away as soon as the song ended.


	5. Bridge over troubled water

**A/N I hate this chapter. I started it based on a personal experience, but was unable to finish it in the same day and ended up far from what I wanted. I honestly think it's pretty bad :( I posted it anyway, but I'll probably take it down and change it soon.**

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><p>It was only in rare cases that Monsieur de Treville chose to separate the famous four. After all, why change something that worked so well? However, in these rare cases, when the Captain of the musketeers needed to have his most trusted men in more places than one, he chose to send them their separate ways.<p>

Currently, Aramis and Porthos were in the region of Champagne, after having tracked down a small group of bandits. The group of three rogues had pilfered several carriages belonging to the nobles from Troyes, Reims, and Épernay thus raising the ire of said nobles and the concern of the Captain of the musketeers. Since, the three had been so adept at making themselves scarce, Monsieur de Treville decided to send Aramis and Porthos on their tracks. The two musketeers had just finished their mission successfully when they found themselves attacked.

It appeared that Treville's informers had not known there were in fact two groups of thugs prowling in the region. They took turns raiding the carriages and therefore escaped notice more easily. Seeing as their brethren had been captured the second group of three decided to attack and avenge them.

"Aramis, I'm starving, let's make do with these buffoons and find a tavern," the giant boomed and laughed upon seeing the glares he received from the three thugs.

"Now, Porthos, your stomach really is a troublesome issue," Aramis drawled lazily and revealed his rapier and his parrying knife. "Now, gentlemen, I'm afraid we'll have to kill you." The former musketeer prepared his stance for battle.

"Get 'em!" The thugs roared in fury and engaged the two musketeers in battle. Two of them started circling Porthos, while the giant merely watched them with amusement. The two thugs were not organized and their skills with a blade were lacking tremendously. They charged at a time trying to blindside the musketeer, but soon enough one of them found himself kicked to the ground, while his friend fell with his chest slashed open. The second thug spat in fury and rose to his feet thrusting madly with his sword. Porthos parried two, poorly aimed hits and started his own offensive, bringing the man on his knees with a well aimed slash at his throat.

Looking around, he noticed Aramis had some trouble with his opponent. Far from being another brainless thug, the man kept pressing the musketeer hard with accurate swordplay. The two had, unknowingly, stepped on a bridge while they continued exchanging parries and thrusts. On any other day, Porthos would not have been worried for his friend, but the bridge was shaky as it was without withholding the weight of the two men. Moreover, the river was running swift, fuelled by the waters gathered from the melted snow. Winter had been particularly harsh that year and the spring that followed saw many floodings caused by the melted snow from the mountains. Now, his friend was balancing precariously above an angry river and Porthos was already starting to see how the bridge was giving up under him.

"Aramis," Porthos bellowed, but the harsh cry of the river drowned his voice. The musketeer felt helpless; he was certain his friend would be able to dispatch of his opponent soon, the bandit was already starting to tire, but he was unsure how long the bridge would remain standing.

Aramis parried two aims from the thug and sneaked in a few thrusts of his own. The bandit groaned in pain as one of the thrusts slashed his leg and started slowing down considerably. The musketeer attacked him with reborn vigour and soon the thug toppled and fell over the bridge crashing in the stones below.

Only then did Aramis notice the situation he found himself into. The bridge was cracking with every movement he made and the fight with the thug had only weakened the strings holding the wood planks in place. All planks were cracked and mouldy therefore the musketeer made his way slowly across the bridge. It was a miracle the planks had not given it during the fight.

Aramis was halfway across the distance remaining till the mouth of the bridge when the first rope snapped. The musketeer froze in place, not daring to move. Across the bridge, on the field, Porthos' face was filled with worry. The former priest made another step, gingerly stepping on the planks, trying not to rattle the bridge. Another followed and another... However, at the third step the bridge gave away, the strings snapping from their places.

The musketeer plunged in the rapid waters of the river. Luckily, he somehow managed to avoid hitting any of the rocks. The current mercilessly held the musketeer in its grasp twisting him and twirling him down the river.

Aramis was fighting to somehow gain control of the situation, struggling against the current. He was usually a good swimmer, but nothing helped when faced with a river fuelled by the waters of the melted snows. All he could hope to manage was keep his head above water and keep from drowning. Suddenly a shape started forming in front of him. The shape kept getting larger and larger, until Aramis managed to see what it was... a tree had collapsed in the waters and was now halfway submerged across the river. The musketeer swam wildly across the current, struggling to get in the path of the tree. The force of the water slammed him in the trunk, knocking the breath out of him, but he managed to grasp one of the branches.

Porthos sighed in relief when he saw his friend had managed to grab the branches of the collapsed tree. Dismounting quickly, he grasped the rope tied to his saddle and fashioned a lasso from it. Swinging it around he threw it around the form of his friend who kept on hand firmly grasping the tree while the other grabbed hold of the rope. It was a combined effort to bring the musketeer back on land, but in the end they managed.

Aramis sputtered and coughed out water... he rolled on his back and gasped heavily, finally managing to fill his lungs with the much needed air they craved. Next to him, Porthos stood grim faced, watching his friend with worry.

"Bridges... are not ... a good place for duels," Aramis said, his teeth chattering because of the water logged clothes and the blowing wind.

Porthos merely glared at him and said nothing. There was just that much his poor heart could carry... seeing his friend submerged under the furious waters of the river was not amongst it.


End file.
